all i want is tea, orange, and comfort. ask me what i love, i love comfortable things. white beds, lavender, the sound rain makes over pavement. dancing not for the art of it but for the feeling. after-dinner coffee, the security of memory.
Self-Portrait With Red Eyes
Throughout our affair of eleven years,
disappearing into the pleasure-unto-death
acts I recall now as love and, afterward,
orbiting through the long, deep sleeps
in which memory, motor of everything,
reconstituted itself, I cared nothing about
life outside the walls of our bedroom.
The hand erasing writes the real thing,
and I am trying. I loved life and see now
this was weakness. I loved the little
births and deaths occurring in us daily.
Even the white spit on your sharp teeth
was the foam of love, saying to me: It is not true,
after all, that you were never loved.
-Henri Cole
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